


Movements

by RuminantMonk



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Book: Dragon Age - The Masked Empire, F/F, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 15:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13274631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuminantMonk/pseuds/RuminantMonk
Summary: Halamshiral, the heart of the Great Game: members of the Inquisition and the Orlesian court lay in wait, watching, observing, planning.—Briala has heard the tales of the sister’s exploits during the Fifth Blight (though Morrigan had made no mention of her to Celene). Briala also knows about the sister’s elven lover, the celebrated grey warden whose origins are rooted in the squalor of a Denerim alienage. There are whispers, still, that go further back into the sister’s past. Her days of youth when she was but an Orlesian bard under the employ of an even more cunning patron.Seeing her now like this—red hair set aglow under the warm light of palace chandeliers, graceful neckline exposed to the open air of the court—it’s hard to believe her preferred domain is amongst the cold and shadows.





	Movements

 

Gaspard finds the Inquisitor first. The Grand Duke presents himself as a rare example of sincerity compared to the rest of masked players of Orlais. Lavellan knows better; his smile is practiced, jovial manner but a façade. Like the others, he will vie for her favor tonight.

But even so, the Grand Duke slips more easily than most: “Elves have no place in politics.”

Sera practically bristles behind her. Lavellan smiles through the insult. There is so much irony to his words that she almost laughs. This is Halamshiral, the former capital of the Dales. This is where she belongs. It is he and all the others who have no place here.

Tonight, they will gather around her in the name of the Grand Game. It will be a miserable evening. She’s always had a distaste for deceit and in the Winter Palace, dishonesty will greet her around every corner, well-disguised under fanciful silks and winking, gilded masks. Most of all, Lavellan wishes she didn’t have to witness the splendor of history reduced to a bloody playground where shems indulge in their petty, wasteful waltzes.

 

—

 

Briala has declared her allegiance even before she’s said one word.

Celene allows her eyes to linger from a distance. It’s been nearly a year. Betrayal has made Briala a new woman. It suits her, Celene thinks.

As expected, she no longer bears the colors and motifs of House Valmont. A new mask made from oxidized silverite, engraved with foreign markings, likely Dalish in origin. An elegant, modest dress cut from emerald brocade—the color complements her deep brown skin. And on her feet, the absence of shoes.

Briala has come to her court dressed to elude. She is a vision, a cipher. And there’s nothing for Celene to interpret or translate.

Yet, some things remain unchanged. The wisps of hair that trail gently up her neck. In watching her, Celene has come to a conclusion both new and old: she would forgive Briala anything. Even if the reverse were untrue, impossible. Even in spite of that fact.

Celene thinks of so many lives wasted in the past year, her own citizens caught between herself and Gaspard, herself and Briala. Then again, this is how it’s always been. A life that has been stained with violence for as long as she can remember. Years and months demarcated by instances of betrayal.

Celene can’t remember a time when she didn’t wash blood with blood, just as she cannot remember a time when she did not love Briala.

This truth sticks in her throat like smoke clings to hair.

 

—

 

Sister Leliana hides her beauty the same way she cloaks cunning with dispassion.

Briala has heard the tales of the sister’s exploits during the Fifth Blight (though Morrigan had made no mention of her to Celene). Briala also knows about the sister’s elven lover, the celebrated Grey Warden whose origins are rooted in the squalor of a Denerim alienage.

There are whispers, still, that go further back into the sister’s past. Her days of youth when she was but an Orlesian bard under the employ of an even more cunning patron.

Seeing her now like this—red hair set aglow under the warm light of palace chandeliers, graceful neckline exposed to the open air of the court—it’s hard to believe her preferred domain is amongst the cold and shadows.

Seneschal to the Inquisition, the bloody Left Hand. Always strategizing. Always measuring action against reaction. Careful movements born from muscle memory, the dangerous dance learned from years of playing the Great Game.

This they share in common, along with the difficulty that comes hand-in-hand in trying to bring change to the outdated systems governing churches and kingdoms.

It isn’t the only commonality between them. If she is to believe what she's heard, then the sister is as intimately acquainted with betrayal as she. They are both survivors.

Briala watches as she speaks with nobles and confers with her advisors, but mostly Briala watches her watching others. Sister Leliana is a lethal beauty who lies in wait. For that reason, tonight is a rare moment. The Nightingale has emerged from hiding and now basks in the light. And so before the sister retreats back to the shadows of Skyhold, Briala is content to continue observing a profile elegant as though cut from marble.

An elven servant approaches the sister carrying a tray that holds two glasses and a bottle of wine. She looks up and for a second it appears as though her face has opened like a blossom in sunlight.

But in the blink of an eye, her expression turns placid once more.

A trick of the light, perhaps, Briala thinks.

 

—

 

Sera is so bored she could die. Enough with the Orlesians and their judging. Can't stand the way they look at her. Can't stand the fact that she can't spend more than five minutes alone with Lavellan without getting weird looks from ponces and a warning glare from Josephine. 

More than that, she hates all the planning and the plotting. It’s all too much, she can hardly keep track. Celene betrayed Briala and Briala betrayed Celene. What drama. What rubbish romance. And Gaspard. Well, Gaspard is a tit.

She’s sick of it. This business of killing elves, killing soldiers, burning alienages … moving people around a game board as if they weren’t bloody _people_. All of them up top, they’re all shite. Easier if they just set this whole country on fire. Who cares if they’re great at cheese and pastries. Speaking of.

Sera walks up to an elven servant and flashes a series of hand signs in rapid fire succession. Red Jenny code. One she had to memorize before arriving at the damn palace. The servant tilts his chin in a nod and turns to walk away. He doesn’t bother checking to see if she follows. He’s good at this, this one.

Sera’s fingers brush mahogany balustrade as she allows herself to be led down a flight of carpeted stairs. They walk through a dimly lit hallway.

Wordlessly, the servant unlocks a storage room. She pokes her head in. It’s dark, but she can make out brooms and buckets. The closet smells like mold and musty wood. When she turns to thank him, he’s already gone.

“Right, now, where are you,” Sera whispers. She spots wine bottles hidden a dusty corner. A figure is crouched before them.

“You,” she starts. The figure startles, then turns around. Another elf wearing servant’s clothes. Are all the damn servants here elves? It’s a woman. Pretty. A bit older. A scar cuts through her left brow.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Sera finishes.

The servant turns back around. “Neither are you.” Bottles clink in the darkness.

The other woman stands with a wine bottle tucked under her arm. “Sorry, but I grabbed the best vintage. 9:20 Dragon. Good year. It’s her favorite.”

Sera doesn’t say anything because she doesn’t know shit about wine.

The woman grabs a different bottle and hands it to Sera. “That one’s good, though. Give it a try. It’s her second favorite.”

“Whose—?”

“Smells like wild raspberries and earth.” Sera catches a glint of a smile. “It’s nice and rich. A good winter wine.”

Sera frowns. “But it’s spring.”

The woman shrugs. “Yes, well. We are in the Winter Palace. Should count for something.”

Sera chortles. Good joke.

“Go on, bring it for your girl. Dalish are crazy for fruit and dirt and that sort of thing, isn’t that what they say?”

Sounds right and elfy, but how did she—

“Well, nice meeting you, but I have to run. Don’t want to keep her waiting.” The woman then quickly ducks out of the room. She’s light on her feet.

“What? Who? Who’s waiting?” Sera calls after her.

Sera looks at the bottle in her hands. It has a fancy label, like embossed silver. Fucking wine … she hopes she likes it. Might not hurt to try some first to make sure.

 

—

 

Sera’s been in the cups. Leliana can smell it on her, along with the duck fat and acorn-fed pork.

Neither she nor the Inquisitor know that she’s observed them at various points in their relationship—the rookery provides a sweeping view of Skyhold’s grounds. She’s seen them eating cookies on the roof of Herald’s Rest. A few times, she’s heard Sera clambering up the ivy trellis that leads to the Inquisitor’s chambers. And just once, she overheard bits of an argument taking place in the gardens during the early morning hours, their voices reverberating off old stone.

Sera is watching the dancefloor where the Inquisitor and a moustached noble are engaged in the slow, graceful movements of a lilting Sarabande.

Leliana approaches Sera.

“Sister Leliana,” Sera smiles. The elf gives her a once over. “You’re pretty in places.”

They both watch Inquisitor Lavellan dip and bend at the knee.

“The Inquisitor is a fine dancer, no?” Leliana says. Sera hums in agreement, takes a sip of wine from a crystal goblet.

“Quick on her feet,” she observes. “Like many of the Dalish. Though court dances are unlike any traditional Dalish dance.”

“What does it matter if it’s elfy or not?” Sera murmurs into her glass.

Leliana smiles and looks at her from the corner of her eye. “I only mean the styles are different. I had to teach her, you know.”

“What, really? You and her?” Leliana can practically see something lascivious unfold behind Sera’s gray green eyes.

Leliana nods in affirmation. “Why, would you like me to teach you as well?”

Sera makes a strange sound in response and takes a longer sip of her wine, hiding her face behind the crystal. Leliana smiles. That she is capable of eliciting fluster even now—she allows herself to enjoy this fact for a moment.

The music picks up. The strings of the orchestra take chase after lively percussion. The Inquisitor’s motions follow suit. Arms curl, foot pivots back and torso twists, left wrist turns, followed by the right wrist. Sera and Leliana watch as the Inquisitor's lithe figure flows and unfolds alongside the tempo. Utter perfection.

Of course, the Inquisitor had been a fine pupil, though at times she had to push to remove traces of Dalish dance from her form. It had been easier to teach the same steps to the Warden, for Tabris had been a clean slate. With her, there had no steps to rewrite, no instincts to erase and replace. Just newness and grace instilled.

“But watch carefully,” Leliana says to Sera. “I could not get—how do you say—all of the 'elfy' out of her system.”

At that moment, the Inquisitor executes an elegant twirl in tandem with a trilling flute. Her partner stumbles every so slightly. His gold mask fails to cover the flush that spreads over his cheeks.

“She is outdancing her partner,” Leliana continues. “To dance successfully is to hide skill when necessary in order to complement one’s partner. Even in these frivolities, you must show power by yielding, by making your partner feel they are in control.” This was the most valuable lesson Marjolaine had imparted on her.

“It gives the appearance of balance, of being on equal footing.” Even after all these years, bitterness claws into her stomach.

Sera scoffs and shakes her head. “Ego. So Orlesian. Not her fault she’s better at it than him. He ought to catch up.”

A laugh escapes Leliana’s lips like a relief. “If you are suggesting he is unworthy, you are right, of course.”

When the music comes to an end, the Inquisitor bows deeply.

 

—

 

Leliana seeks out Ambassador Briala during the intermission. She finds her standing on the balcony, alone and awash in blue moonlight.

Though the Inquisitor is still gathering intelligence, Leliana has seen and heard enough. Elven servants whispering in corridors, tucking notes quietly under silver platters. Briala’s network is impressive. They work in quiet sabotage, going unnoticed by the denizens of Orlais’ upper crust.

Leliana senses Briala is still deciding on the ends to the means. She knows indecision when she sees it and in this moment, the former handmaiden to Empress Celene is the very picture of ambivalence.

Leliana steps beside her without a word. Briala is the first to speak.

“What does the Inquisition really want?”

“I would be a poor spymaster if I let you in on our intentions so easily.”

“Yes, but as one deeply acquainted with the nature of your role, I believe we can skip a few steps in this dance.”

They do not look at each other. Leliana’s eyes are fixed on the well-groomed topiaries below.

“Peace and progress,” she finally answers. “Of the lasting variety. Whatever we accomplish here must take hold in the years that follow. We would not see our work undone so quickly.”

“Progress? In Orlais?” Briala’s voice pitches high on the question. “These things do not occur overnight. All who have gathered here in the palace would see that things remain unchanged.”

“With but the right steps, new possibilities will surely open.” Leliana folds her arms. The night is cold. “The situation is not as immovable as many perceive it to be. The past and present may yet yield to the future.”

Silence. Inside, past the marble columns, Leliana hears the faint beginnings of a Courante in minor key.

Briala speaks once more. “Even so, we are all bound to the past, Sister. In the present, as well as the future.”

The remark is pointed.

Leliana turns her head slightly, stealing a glance at the elven woman. There is much she wishes to tell her, to urge her in the right direction. What she wants to express is that one does not have to owe in order to earn. She understands better than anyone what it’s like to want for only that which another permits. To truly believe that boundaries drawn by another are as good as your own.

Realizing that particular lie, in many ways, is worse than the betrayal itself. Briala herself must also know. 

She turns to face her. In this light, her eyes are so like the Warden’s. Green and amber, flecked with gold. And behind the colors: barely repressed anger. Though they are outside, the air between them hangs heavy with tension. Leliana allows boldness to take hold.

“Then you must unburden yourself. There is a clear path to the future. Set fire to it, if you must.”

Behind the mask, eyes narrow. Briala does not miss her choice of words.

Briala steps in dangerously close. From here, she can see a spray of freckles peeking out from under the burnished silver of her mask. Even when concealed, her natural beauty reveals itself.

“I’ve heard things about your past. I know of Marjolaine.” Her voice is quiet, deadly. Almost a whisper.

Leliana holds her breath.

“Was the choice so easy for you back then? Or was it your flat ear Warden who did your work for you?”

Briala steps closer still. Their lips are almost touching.

“Who taught you how to sing, Nightingale?”

Briala presses a hand to her torso. The silk of Leliana’s gown brushes against her deepest, oldest scar. She has to bite down a gasp.

Briala brings her lips to the shell of her ear. “Who was it that taught you how to kiss with steel?”

 

—

 

Elves can see better in the dark. That’s how she and Sera spot Leliana in the empty salon, her arms caught around the figure of another. 

Sera’s eyes go wide. Lavellan hastily pushes her behind a heavy velvet curtain.

“Wow, Mistress of Shadows,” Sera whispers. “Sister Ginger getting her kinks in a place like this.”

Lavellan cranes her neck to get a better look. Though she's terrified of getting caught, the fright does nothing to quell her curiosity. Pointed ears cast faint shadows against the wall. 

“Is that a servant?” she whispers to Sera.

“No, really?” Sera's biting her lip and grinning at the same time. “She got a thing for the help? But, wait. I thought you said she was still with her lady Warden.”

Lavellan tries to push past the haze of alcohol clouding her thoughts. “That’s what I thought, at least that’s what she told me …”

“Ah, well, distance kills. No harm in having a bit of fun when you're apart for that long.”

She’s almost inclined to agree. From here, she sees Leliana tuck a lock of hair behind a pointed ear. The gesture is tender. Too familiar.

Before she has a chance to ponder more, Sera tugs at her hand. “Come on,” she whispers. “Let’s have some of our own fun.”

They sneak out of the salon as quietly as their dainty feet will allow them. 

"I knicked you some good stuff. Dirty berry wine," Sera says excitedly. 

Lavellan wrinkles her nose. "Dirty what? I'll pass, thanks." 

"Oh, shut it, come on." 

Before she knows it, Sera's taken her hand and they're running down a dark hallway, past gold-framed paintings and elaborate stained glass windows, laughing and out of breath. 

They reach the library and are relieved to find it empty.

Moments later, they’re drunk on the wine Sera pilfered and kissing messily against gilded bookcases. Sera’s hands pin her wrists against leather-bound volumes of Orlesian history and royal lineage. They do not speak of Briala or Celene or Gaspard. This is just how things are with Sera. It took them some practice, but they mastered the art of dancing around sensitive topics. It’s out of necessity—too many feelings hurt, too many moments of stony impasse.

Why fight when they can just be like this?

They’re both angry in their own way—sometimes, she senses their anger comes from the same place, but she’s stopped trying to convince Sera. Even though deep down, she knows the seams of their scars line up perfectly.

None of it matters. Sera is loyal. They are both devoted. That is enough for now.

 

—

 

Briala holds the locket in her hand. Just moments ago, the Inquisitor pressed it into her palm with a meaningful look in her eyes.

Holding this souvenir of the past is almost enough to erase the image of blood spreading under a red curtain. The weight of it is almost enough to snuff out the memories of a burning alienage, all the screams and the smell of smoke. For the past year, she has kept her anger so close to her skin like a blade. And now, she can finally feel it begin to dull.

Briala makes up her mind: she decides to look for Celene.

She is interrupted by an elven servant who approaches her on the balcony. Briala does not recognize the face behind the mask or her way in which she walks with urgency. This is not one of her agents.

The servant presses something into her unoccupied hand, closes her own hand around it to stop her from pulling away. Briala feels a sharp prickle bite into her fingers.

“You recognize this, don’t you?” The woman speaks, her voice brusque and low.

Briala looks down at their joined hands. A flower peeks out over the top of her fist. White petals spiral around a blood red center. It is a beautiful flower.

“The moonthorn. It grows around the roots of the _vhenedal_. Its thorns are sharper than that of a rose, but it blooms only once a year during a waning moon.”

Briala winces from the pain. It’s then that she notices a pattern of teardrop tattoos around the other woman’s knuckles. She looks up. Her eye catches on a clipped ear and a scar that cuts through the other woman's brow and reaches down under her mask.

There is another scar—mottled and pink—sitting in the crook of her neck. Singed by the flames of a blighted dragon.

“Warden Tabris?” she breathes. The warden holds her gaze. Tightens her fist. The thorns dig in deeper.

“What is this pain worth?” the warden asks, her eyes searching. “And the past you share with her, what is it worth? More than the future of your people? This pain—know that it is fleeting.”

Warden Tabris releases her hand. “Leliana would do anything for me. What would Celene do for you?”

With that, she leaves Briala to stand alone on the balcony, locket in one hand, blood and blossom in the other, silently contemplating the weight of each.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this one for years. I've always like the idea of Briala meeting Leliana, what with their individual histories and political aims.


End file.
